


Wisdom and Power

by Dragonflies_and_Katydids



Series: Dawn [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Background Relationships, Established Relationship, Light Bondage, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-31 01:37:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3959557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonflies_and_Katydids/pseuds/Dragonflies_and_Katydids
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian isn't very good at apologizing, but Bull's pretty good at reading between the lines.  He hopes.</p><p>Interstitial between chapters 16 and 17 of <em>Exit Light</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wisdom and Power

**Author's Note:**

> Those who know others are intelligent;  
> those who know themselves are truly wise.  
> Those who master others are strong;  
> those who master themselves have true power.
> 
> Tao Te Ching, 33

Bull waits.

He's always been good at that, and years of Ben-Hassrath training have elevated it from talent to art form. Patience is part of it, the willingness and the discipline to be still when others insist on running and shouting. But it's also knowing where to wait, and when to stop waiting, and what to do when the time has come to act. Ben-Hassrath training taught him all of it, and whatever else in him was broken by decades of service to the Qun, he never lost the gut-deep understand of how to wait. Less than a year with the Inquisition, and that understanding is scattered in broken shards.

And yet, so much of his life has been spent waiting that of course it's what he retreats to now, when he doesn't know what else to do. His corner of the Herald's Rest is perfect, shadowed but with a clear view of everyone who comes and goes. Not that there's much activity at this time of day.

While he waits, he sharpens the axe the Inquisitor brought him yesterday, testing the weight as much as the edge. The weapon is huge even by his standards, the head almost as broad as his chest. He hasn't decided yet whether he actually wants to use something so unwieldy, but he can admit he's tempted. The thought of swinging it through a wall of red templars or Venatori makes him smile.

So he waits and thinks of the smooth grain of the haft, the roughness of the leather grip, the inlaid runes that appeared on the metal as he cleaned and polished it. What he doesn't do is think about last night, about being pinned and helpless against the wall of his own room while Dorian methodically destroyed everything Bull has spent months building. Or perhaps not building, but training, as a gardener trains an ornamental tree to change bent limbs into art. Months of work turning both Cullen and Dorian outward again, pushing them to look beyond the habits that are slowly killing them, teaching them to trust him. All ruined by one miscalculation.

That he knows why he made the mistake doesn't help, because the reason is, itself, a mistake. Worse, it's a novice's mistake, one he never made when he _was_ a novice and never thought to make now, when he should be a master of his chosen craft. His tamassran would laugh herself sick to see the mess he's made because he ignored the first and most important lesson the Ben-Hassrath taught: to separate himself from those around him, to remain aloof and so remain unbiased. A fish can't see the water, and he is supposed to be a hawk, stooping down at precisely the right moment, not flapping helplessly with wet feathers.

He's not sure exactly where and when he lost his objectivity, and that by itself says how deep he's sunk. Somewhere between a woman sobbing out her terror into his shoulder and Dorian flinging him back like a toy that's lost its allure, he let himself become part of the problem.

"You can help her," Cole said with a child's absolute conviction, his head tilted to the side so he could peer around the brim of his hat.

"Fuck you both!" Dorian said, falling apart while Bull watched, dragging Cullen down with him.

Bull turns the axe to rest the head on the floor and rubs along the woodgrain in the haft, abandoning the pretense that last night's disaster isn't preying on him. Lying to himself is what got him into this mess in the first place, after all. If he'd maintained his distance, he would have read the tension in Cullen, in Dorian, and known what to do about it before it was too late. Instead, he blundered in and tried to pretend it was a night like any other, ignoring all the warnings because he _wanted_ everything to be all right.

He's not even sure he made the right choice later, letting Cullen leave the tavern alone. Was that the time to stop waiting, or should he be patient a little longer? Every thought is suspect now, every impulse open to question as he tries to pull himself back up and out of this mire. His mind is a compromised agent, and he's not sure which of its reports are true, which are distractions, and which are dangerous lies.

He misses the peace and the certainty of the Qun, even as he knows he isn't willing to pay the price necessary to reclaim it.

Familiar footsteps on the stairs make him look up, just as Dorian comes into view. He looks haggard, still wearing last night's clothes and at least a little bit of last night's anger as a shield against whatever he expects Bull to say. He's also surprisingly (if not entirely) sober, though it's unlikely anyone else would know the difference. Dorian excels at feigning sobriety even when he's too drunk to see straight, and Bull suspects no one in Skyhold has an inkling how much he drinks in the normal course of a day. Well, except Bull himself, and Cullen; Bull's seen him frown at Dorian's cup more than once. That seemed like a good sign once, but maybe now all such signs are irrelevant.

At the bottom of the stairs, Dorian hesitates before turning in Bull's direction. "That's...quite something," Dorian says, raising an eyebrow at the axe.

"From the Inquisitor," Bull says, spinning it slowly around in his hands to bring the head up where Dorian can see it. Dorian gives it a skeptical look and makes a disparaging noise in the back of his throat, the same noise he's made every time Bull's ever shown him a weapon that isn't a mage's staff.

"I suppose it's useful enough, for those without more interesting talents." Dorian makes a small motion as if grabbing an insect out of the air, and when he turns his hand palm up again, a tiny lightning storm rages between his fingers. It dissipates quickly, leaving only the smell behind.

"Oh, I have plenty of more interesting talents," Bull says with a leer. Whatever else has gone wrong, this is a game he knows how to play. He lets the axe slide back to the floor with one hand while he grabs Dorian with the other, pulling the mage across his lap.

Dorian elbows him and scrambles back to his feet, muttering "oaf!" as he does so, but that, too, is part of the game. "How terribly undignified," he says with a sniff, tugging his jacket back into place without moving beyond Bull's reach.

Bull makes another lazy grab, and Dorian swats his hand away. "There _are_ other people around," Dorian says, which is precisely the point. This isn't a game they play when it's just the two of them; it's a game that allows Dorian to pretend aloofness without actually remaining aloof, and there's no point if there's no potential audience.

"Then let's go somewhere else," Bull says, and he knows he's mis-stepped when Dorian's face freezes for a fraction of a second.

"A marvelous idea," Dorian says easily, still playing despite whatever's going through his head.

At this point in the game, sometimes Bull slings Dorian over his shoulder: if he's going to put on a show, it's going to be a good one. He can't decide if that's a good idea or a bad one today, so he hefts his axe and leads the way upstairs, letting Dorian follow at his own pace.

In Bull's room, Dorian shuts the door with more force than necessary and says, "I'm sorry."

Bull looks up from finding a place for the axe, to see Dorian with his chin thrust out in front of him. Despite his worries ( _fears,_ whispers the voice in the back of his head), seeing Dorian look so much like himself makes Bull want to smile. Not that he does so, because he knows what reaction it would provoke, but the weight on his shoulders feels a little lighter.

When he doesn't respond, Dorian comes closer. His hand is trembling slightly when he lays it on the axe haft beside Bull's. "His logic _is_ terrible," Dorian adds defensively.

Ah. So they are going to talk about it after all.

"Yours wasn't any better, kadan," Bull says with a smile, hoping that's the right thing to say and the right way to say it. He hates that this is what he's reduced to: hoping and wondering, rather than seeing and knowing.

He lets go of the axe and tries to tug Dorian forward by the buckled straps on his jacket, but he doesn't push the issue when Dorian resists.

"I looked that up, you know," Dorian says.

"What?" Bull asks innocently.

"Kadan," Dorian says, and Bull silently curses the Inquisitor's willingness to buy Dorian whatever book he asks for.

"Must have taken you a while to find it," Bull says, as if none of this matters.

"Well, yes," Dorian says, "but I've had months."

As if Bull doesn't recall precisely the first time the word slipped out of his mouth, Dorian tucked under his arm in Skyhold's library while Cullen agonized in the doorway. He'd said it in his head before that, but he'd never had a problem keeping it inside until he had to listen to Dorian fall apart while he talked about his father.

If he wants to point to a specific moment when his life began to slip from his control, that one's probably as good as any other. Or maybe it was even farther back than that, given that no alarms sounded when he realized what he'd said. Certainly Gatt would argue he'd already lost control when he chose the Chargers over the Qun.

This time when Bull tugs on his jacket, Dorian lets himself be drawn in. "Kadan," Bull whispers, trying to decide what it means that Dorian is trembling against him. How do people live like this, never knowing if their next word or action will wreck someone they love?

"I talked to Cullen," Dorian says into his chest. "I apologized."

Bull doesn't know whether he should be relieved, not when Dorian says it in that tone. "What did he say?"

The pause that follows is even less reassuring, and Bull leans away a bit, trying to see Dorian's face. He looks thoughtful rather than guilty, and the last of his anger is gone. When he meets Bull's eye, he smiles faintly. "Well, I don't think I made it worse."

Should he push, or leave it alone? He can't fix this for them, no matter how much he wants to, but does that mean he should stay out of it completely? A very small part of him is tempted to walk away from both of them, just to reclaim his objectivity.

"How much 'not worse'?" Bull asks.

Dorian makes a face. "He sent Ella up to feed me, after he left."

Bull suspects Cullen has no idea how perfect a choice that was: Dorian wants those tangible signs of affection, even as he appears to reject them because he doesn't know how to accept any gift. And what will happen when the inevitable rumors start to fly? They would start anyway, even if Cullen's relationship with Dorian truly was no more than friendship, and the chances are vanishingly small that Cullen will be able to offer any kind of plausible denial. Bull has yet to see the man lie convincingly, though he's more than capable of keeping his mouth shut when the situation calls for it. Sometimes when it doesn't, too.

There are too many different ways Cullen could react to those rumors, and too many ways Dorian might respond to his reaction. Thinking about it is giving Bull a headache, so he slides his hands down Dorian's back to his ass and lifts him into the air. He just wants to be back in a place where he knows what to do.

Fortunately, Dorian seems to want the same thing, or at least, he's willing to be distracted. He wraps his legs around Bull's waist and his arms around Bull's neck, whispering "fuck me" against Bull's mouth. He doesn't say, "Make me forget," but those are the words Bull hears.

Or thinks he hears.

 _Parshaara._ This endless indecision is just a different kind of waiting. A dangerous kind, one he has no control over, and he's sick of it, and of himself for indulging it. Whether he should take Dorian's words at face value, or listen to the subtext he thinks he hears in them, his response would be the same.

He kisses Dorian hard, then sets him down on his feet, deliberately too fast so he's off balance when Bull spins him around to face the bed. "If you're not naked by the time I am," Bull growls in his ear, "I'm ripping off whatever you're still wearing." A gentle shove sends Dorian staggering a few steps forward, already working at the buckles on his jacket.

Bull watches him from the corner of his eye, and when he sees Dorian moving quickly, he deliberately slows his own pace as he removes his harness. They're back to the game, and part of the fun of that game is in the balance required: to let Dorian retain control while they both pretend he has none. "Katoh" is only the smallest part of that, and while Bull likes tearing off a lover's clothes, it's not what Dorian wants today. As many times as they've played this game, Bull could go through the motions in his sleep if he were stupid enough to let himself miss the pleasure of taking Dorian apart. He has no intention of being that stupid, ever.

The last of Dorian's clothes land on the floor just before Bull grabs him and tosses him onto the bed. Before Dorian can recover, Bull straddles him, pinning his wrists to the bed and kissing him again. Deeper this time, pressing his tongue into Dorian's mouth to taste every inch of it, Dorian's hips grinding upward as he tries unsuccessfully to free himself.

Raising Dorian's arms over his head, Bull switches his grip to hold both wrists in one hand, his forearm half over Dorian's face to pin his head down. Dorian strains against him, trying to follow Bull's mouth as he moves away to bite the underside of Dorian's jaw. He leaves a trail of red marks down Dorian's neck to his chest, and right above one nipple, he bites hard, intent on making one mark that won't be gone by morning. Dorian sucks in his breath, thrusting his chest up in clear encouragement.

When he's satisfied the mark will bruise, Bull lets Dorian go long enough to find the free end of one of the ropes. These days, he doesn't even bother to untie them from the bed, only flips them behind the headboard if they're not in use to make it easier the next time he wants them. He needs that advantage now, because Dorian makes him work for it, twisting and bucking in an almost too real attempt to escape. It reminds Bull uncomfortably of Cullen last night, thrashing against the rope in panic, but Dorian is also whispering "yes yes yes" under his breath, as if his mouth has forgotten it's supposed to be playing a game, and Bull lets go of last night and focuses on today.

With Dorian moving under him, muscles tight and sweat beginning to slick his skin, it's not exactly difficult to stay in the moment.

Dorian continues to fight, and Bull finally has to lie down on top of him, spreading Dorian's thighs wide. In contrast to his arms which twist in Bull's hands, Dorian's legs come up to wrap around him, pressing their cocks together. Bull grunts and yanks the rope tighter than he meant to, tugging Dorian's shoulders hard enough to pull his entire body a little way up the bed. Dorian's thighs squeeze tighter, and his hands, now tied together near the center of the headboard, curl into fists.

It's an effort, but Bull extricates himself from Dorian's grip and flips him over onto his stomach, straddling his thighs to hold him in place. In revenge for the struggle with the rope, Bull teases now, ignoring Dorian's ass in favor of licking and touching each scar he can find from this position. He knows Dorian's vanity frets over the scars, and there's no point trying to explain why Bull loves them, and loves touching them. Cullen would understand, if the conversation didn't send him running, but to Dorian, each one is a reminder of a time his magic failed him. To Bull, each one is a reminder that he survived, each one a banner proclaiming victory over death.

So he teases Dorian and pleases himself by locating every scar, worshiping at each like some devout Andrastian on pilgrimage. Only when Dorian's "yes yes yes" has turned to obscenities does he reach for the oil and push Dorian's knees under his hips.

He doesn't bother being gentle--if Dorian wanted gentle, he wouldn't have fought so hard over the rope--just goes from one finger to two to three in as many strokes, slicks his cock, and presses into Dorian hard and fast. Too hot, too tight, too slick, and he has to stop there for a moment to regain control. Dorian does his best to destroy that control by rocking forward and then back, fucking himself on Bull's cock and gasping into the sheets.

Bull puts his mouth down by Dorian's ear and growls. No words, just a low, animal noise that turns out to be a bad idea, because it only serves to make Dorian move faster. With another growl, Bull lets more of his weight rest on Dorian, driving him down flat against the mattress. Dorian's legs are spread, but otherwise, Bull covers him from head to thighs, and there's no way Dorian can get enough leverage to bring his knees under himself again.

He makes a noise that's half groan and half sob, his hips still trying to move. "Fuck me!" he gasps out, and Bull covers his mouth with one hand, his forefinger pressing low enough against Dorian's upper lip that he can bite Bull's hand if he wants out. Before Bull can decide if he actually does need to stop and explain, Dorian jerks his chin up enough to nip at his finger, then turns his head back into Bull's hand so his mouth is covered once again. Bull tightens his grip on Dorian's face and rests his forehead in the curve at the back of Dorian's neck, his other hand wrapping around both of Dorian's and the rope that holds them to the headboard.

"Oh, I'm going to fuck you," Bull murmurs as he starts to move in leisurely strokes that make Dorian whimper. "But not fast, not yet, not when your ass is so tight around my cock. I'm going to fuck you slow for a little while, and there's not a thing you can do about it." He squeezes Dorian's face and hands in emphasis. "I can fuck you hard or soft or fast or slow. However I want. As long as I want. As many times as I want."

Dorian's breath is hot across the backs of his fingers, the muscles in his back shifting against Bull's chest. Time and reality begin to blur, and Bull's only half aware of the words coming out of his mouth, most of his focus on moving just his hips as he begins to fuck Dorian harder. With Bull's weight on him, the only thing Dorian can do is lie there and take it, and by the noises escaping around Bull's hand, he's not objecting.

Dorian twists his head, again freeing his mouth, and Bull stops mid-stroke. But instead of saying "stop" or "katoh" or even "my hand's going numb, could you loosen the rope?" he sucks hard on two of Bull's fingers, tongue sliding between them.

Bull turns Dorian's head to the side and pushes three fingers between his lips, thumb under his chin to hold his mouth closed. Dorian scrapes his teeth against the knuckles and presses up with his tongue. The eye Bull can see is closed, his face flushed, his mouth wet.

Staying in control no longer seems so important. Bull takes hold of the headboard with the hand not fucking Dorian's mouth and gives in to the need to fuck Dorian's ass as hard as either of them could want. Dorian's chin presses against Bull's thumb as if he wants to open his mouth, and his eyes screw up tight just before his body clenches around Bull's cock and his hips stutter as much as they can.

Bull grits his teeth and holds still until the shuddering stops, then takes his fingers out of Dorian's mouth. While Dorian gets his breath back, Bull slides his hand underneath their bodies and through the wetness there, smearing it over his fingers to bring it back up to Dorian's mouth. Watching him lick away his own seed, Bull thrusts hard and fast, cock and fingers both, until he can't hold back any longer. His eye squeezes closed and everything becomes a wash of sensation, his body around Dorian's and Dorian's around his.

He manages not to collapse at the end, but it's a near thing, and Dorian's grunt of protest reminds him to fold in his arms so his elbows are supporting part of his weight. Dorian seems content once he's not being smothered, and Bull is more than content to press his face into the crook of his neck and surround himself with the smell of Dorian and sex.

Eventually Dorian begins to shift, tugging on the rope, and Bull takes the hint, slipping the knot loose and rubbing at the red marks around Dorian's wrists. The rope out of the way, Bull rolls them together so he's the one on the bottom, letting his hands move slowly up Dorian's arms to knead his shoulders. He lies there a while, idly enjoying the way Dorian stretches against him, skin rubbing on skin, the movements getting smaller and less frequent as Dorian dozes off.

When he's as sure as he can be that Dorian is actually asleep, Bull looks down at him, studying the line of his nose, the curve of his jaw, the single damp strand of hair sticking to his forehead. Ben-Hassrath training taught him how to memorize a face in seconds, and Dorian's has long since been committed to memory. Bull can't even say why he looks, except that it makes his chest feel both too large and too small when he does.

He watches Dorian sleep until he begins to stir again, muttering complaints in Tevene about Skyhold's inadequate bathing facilities, his eyes still pressed shut. It's a complaint Bull has heard at least twice a day since they arrived here, and he smiles, bending his neck enough to kiss the top of Dorian's head.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Dorian says, voice rough from sleep. "Or at least not until after I've bathed."

Just to tweak him, Bull does it again, burying his face in Dorian's hair and inhaling deeply.

"Barbarian," Dorian says, showing no inclination to move away.

"A savage," Bull agrees. _Your savage,_ he thinks, but doesn't say. Dorian and Cullen both would run far and fast if he said it to either of them, so he keeps it to himself. "But this savage _might_ be persuaded to wash your back for you, if you ask nicely."

"Or I could just offer to suck his cock," Dorian says.

"Isn't that what I said?" Bull asks, and Dorian bites him above one nipple, not very gently. "Though not if that's how you plan to suck it," Bull adds.

"Only seemed fair," Dorian says, sliding off the bed at last. He stands with his hands on his hips, peering down at the mark on his breast.

Bull sits up and swings his feet to the floor, tugging an unresisting Dorian forward to stand between his knees. "Mine," he growls, looking up at Dorian.

Dorian laughs deep in his chest and puts his hands on Bull's horns, pulling Bull's face against the mark. Obligingly, Bull bites it again. "Mine," he whispers into Dorian's skin. Because that word is safe: they can both pretend it's still the joke it started as.

"Mine," he says again, and he means it, but he also means, "Yours."

**Author's Note:**

> If somebody actually makes it this far without having read _Exit Light_ , I'm curious how much (if any) of this made sense. My feelings will not be hurt if the answer is "Not a damn bit." It's for science! Or something.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Wisdom and Power [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4879510) by [Opalsong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opalsong/pseuds/Opalsong)




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